


Regret

by writing_with_a_passion16



Category: Historical - Fandom, Not in a fandom - Fandom, holocaust - Fandom
Genre: Holocaust, Liberation, Nazi Germany, Other, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 15:02:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2551895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writing_with_a_passion16/pseuds/writing_with_a_passion16
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Nazi retells his story of his service in Auschwitz.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Regret

           “I was walking back from the gas chambers; my hands were shaking and I could not catch my breath. It was my first time at the gas chambers. Of course, I knew exactly what went on in those places. I was taught how they were designed, what their purpose was, and, of course, why they were there. Seeing them, being inside them was something beyond my wildest dreams.

            “Years ago I joined the Hitler Youth. I was educated in the Nazi party’s goals and ideals. I knew that all men, women, and children who were not like me were inferior. It was not just Jews that I was taught to hate. Oh no, I was taught to hate anyone who was born different. One of my first lessons was how to deal with anyone who did not look like I did; anyone whose eyes were a different color or their hair not light. I was taught to hate those who were ill, physically, and psychologically. As I got older, I was entrusted with secret information that doctors killed little boys and girls who had physical and mental disabilities. You might think that would be enough to turn me away from the Nazis. It did not, just as the war did not terrify me. I was taught how to hold and shoot a gun. I felt safe with the heavy metal in my hands and the swastika on my arm.

            “A man came to my group of boys about a month ago. He tested all of us, looking for the best and brightest. I was chosen because I was what was considered perfect. I had light blonde hair and blue eyes. I raised my arm with pride, saluting my superiors and even the boys around me. I held my weapon without my hands shaking or my arms growing weak. I was told I could join the Nazi soldiers. I was excited. I was no longer a boy marching around with other little boys. I was a man, preparing to defend Germany. I had no idea what being a man entitled.

            “My station was at a concentration camp in Poland, the famous Auschwitz. As I say the name today, I shiver, but back then, the name filled me with excitement. I was a young man purifying the world. My first day I had to escort some three hundred people to the gas chambers. I clenched my jaw and did not look at the terrified faces of the people around me. I held my head high and marched behind my commander. I cleared my throat and asked everyone to remove their clothes and step into the shower chamber. It was then that I looked down at the faces I would never see again, or so I thought. There was panic in some eyes, people who knew exactly where they were going. Others, mostly children, were thrilled with the idea of a shower. Looking at their young faces, my stomach seemed heavy and I got dizzy. My whole life was to prepare me for this moment, but those sad eyes filled with tears and the smell of gas in the air changed me.

            “Everyone showered before being herded into the gas chambers. I was told by an older boy that the showers were meant to keep the gas chambers warm. Otherwise, the crystals of cyanide would not dissolve into the skin. My stomach twisted into knots again, I thought the showers were a last act of kindness. I was young and foolish. After everyone showered we had to heard the men into the gas chambers and separate the women and children. The men always went first, then the women, and the children last. In some ways I wished the children were to go first so they would never have to listen to the screams of their families. The gas chambers were small blocks, like cells. We tried to fit a little over a hundred men into one cell at a time. I remember walking out of the room, hands reaching out to me, begging for mercy. I was tempted to stop, but I told myself they were inferior to me. ‘Let them beg!’ I thought. I stepped back into the shower room and watched as my commander twisted a valve on the wall. I could not see those blue crystals I was told about. I could only hear the screams of the men crying to their God. Some asked him for mercy, others cursed him. Within ten minutes their screaming died away. The same thing happened to the women and children. All their screams were higher. Women called out for their God, just as the men did. I thought it strange the children did not ask for mercy. Perhaps it was because they were not allowed to be taught the Jewish religion. It was their high voices crying for their mothers that sent vile into my mouth.

            “I was ordered to go into the chamber and carry the bodies to the other side of the building. I looked down at the hundreds of bodies lying atop of each other. Their skin was burned and their mouths still open in a silent scream. I said earlier I thought I would never see these faces again. I was wrong, I would see those faces again and again in my nightmares. I would close my eyes and see the burned faces of people screaming for help. I did my duty and carried those bodies to the back where they would be burned. It was after that that I ran behind a building and vomited. Memories that would never vanish stained my thoughts. The scent of that awful gas and burning bodies made my stomach continue to retch vile.

            “A boy not much older than me put his hand on my back. His voice was soft but stern. He looked at me and said, ‘The first is always hard, but you must remember what you do, you do for Germany’. I wiped my mouth and stood up straight. I was still horrified, but I listened to that boy. I was purifying the world of those who should have never been born. I repeated that to myself over and over again.”

            “Did it ever get easier?”

            I looked at the American man sitting across from me. He had a tape recorder on the table, but also a notepad where he was writing bits of my story for his editor. His eyes were sad, not for me, but for those who I murdered.

            I sighed, leaning back in my metal chair, “No, it never got easier.”

            “The Nazis trained you for that. What made it so difficult?”

            “Reading in books is different from smelling the gas and hearing the screams. The books never told me what it would be like to walk the camp every day looking at men and women who were nothing more than skeletons. Books could never describe the awful scent of burning flesh. For example, you sit here and listen to my story of awful noises, smells, sights. You see a picture in your mind, either from me, or tapes you have seen from the Liberation. If you were to go back to any of those camps and see dead bodies stacked together, or ashes spread over the land, you would understand all of your knowledge up to that point was nothing. It takes experience to truly understand and comprehend what happens in the world around you.”

            “Was there ever a point when you wanted to leave Auschwitz and escape those memories?”

            “Many times! However, those memories would never go away. I could never escape that, so I decide to continue my duty to Germany. That was what I was raised to do and my mind was no longer innocent.”

            “Looking back, if you were to leave, when would you have?”

            I sat up, pulling an old, rough piece of paper from my pocket. It had been folded many times over, creating creases delicate enough to tear at the slightest touch. I laid it gently on the table, “That would have been my time to leave.”

            “What is it exactly?” The reporter asked, hesitantly reaching to look at it.

            “That is a diary entry I found in the clothes of a women who I murdered. She was not supposed to have paper or a pen, but she somehow managed to write her story down. I sat up late that night reading her diary. She told many stories of her time in Auschwitz. Each entry was almost identical. She wrote of the sad faces she saw, how tired she felt with no food, the awful smell of the camp. However, each entry ended with the same sentence, ‘There is always hope’.”

            “Why did you keep that specific entry?”

            “This is the entry she wrote the night before her death. If it is alright with you, I would like to read it. I always found it a grotesque representation of German actions. It was always a reminder of the sins I have committed, a reminder that I would never make it to Heaven even if I was told I was doing good for Germany. I would like all of Americans, no, all of the world to understand how the Jews felt in the camps.”

            The reporter nodded, leaning forward and moving the recorder closer to me.

            I delicately unfolded the paper, taking a deep breath. I had committed this to memory with how often I read it, but I did not want to get one word wrong in this moment:

“ _’I have wrote many times the hardships of life in Germany. It began with the smashing of my father’s grocery store. Glass contaminated all food. Afterwards, we were moved into a tiny ghetto in which only two streets ran through the whole thing. Barbed wire lined the outside, and you could not walk without bumping into another soul. When the ghetto became too full we were moved to Auschwitz. Here I have grown thin and can see each bone on my body. I am weak and fatigued. The dreadful scent of my fellow man lingers in the air. The women around me cry out in the hopes we will be saved. I have realized now we will never be saved. Everywhere we look there is death. There is death in the awful gas building. There is death in each of us as we grow weak, starving, and plagued with disease. I am of no use to the Nazis now. I can no longer carry myself to sort through old belongings or cook food for the fortunate. I know this means I will die. The Nazis do not want weak prisoners who cannot serve a purpose. There is no hope, only death.’_ ”

            My voice broke in that last sentence. I had to wipe a tear off my cheek. “I murdered her along with so many others who must have felt the same. I am ashamed to sit before you today. There were many times I wished the gas would kill me.” I put my weak arms on the table and dug the heels of my hands into my eyes. “I spent my life killing those who were deemed unworthy of life. I should have been the first to die. ”

**Author's Note:**

> This was an assignment for my English class. We had to research the Holocaust and give a report on it. This is part of my report. I know it's heavy, but I hope you learn something from it. This is mostly factual, even with an original plot not based off of any one story. Fun Fact: Americans showed Nazis news reels of Liberation. During these showings Nazis would either look away or cry in remorse.


End file.
